


Scoop

by vipjuly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Dean's Tiny Red Shorts, M/M, Pierced Castiel, Power Bottom Castiel, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 04:56:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14888046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: There's a cute guy manning the ice cream shack on the beach.Dean shoots him finger-guns, and the kid asks him out anyway.Yep. Still got it.





	Scoop

**Author's Note:**

> my hand keeps slipping idk man

Growing up, Dean never thought that the beach would be where he spends most of his time. But since he and his brother moved to Venice Beach, there’s really nowhere else he’d rather be. Sunshine, surf, and hotties. Between his big shot lawyer bro and Dean being a personal trainer, they managed to afford a place within jogging distance of the sandy shores, and every day Dean takes advantage of clear skies and hot sand. 

Jogging to the beach every morning is a breeze, and he takes solace in the sound of his towel snapping in the wind as he pulls it out of his athletic bag so he can lie it out on a small portion of beach that he smooths out with the soles of his feet. At eight a.m. the area isn’t packed, especially on a Monday morning, and this is Dean’s favorite time to come and lounge. It’s quiet for the most part, and he can really hear the foam lapping at the shore, and it’s just a good way to get his zen on before he goes to the chaos that is the private gym he owns. And, as much as he loves eye candy, he just as much appreciates being unbothered as he pulls off his tank top and stretches out, the short hem of his red swim trunks barely doing their job to keep him modest. 

After about five minutes of direct sun exposure he sits up, pulling the sunscreen out of his bag so he can start slathering his skin. He’s golden and freckled and gets complimented often on his complexion, but he’s not about to let himself turn into a leathery mess. He looks good for forty, and he plans on keeping it that way.

Amongst the stragglers on the boardwalk, the sound of skateboard wheels is a little jarring. Dean continues to rub the sunscreen across his chest as he turns his head to look through the sepia filter of his sunglasses curiously - Sam always tells him he should get a longboard (“We can go on rides together!”), but Dean has always associated them with the younger crowd, and can’t bring himself to get in on the fad. Plus, graceful as Dean is on his feet, he’s not sure if he’d ever live it down if he ate shit on a longboard.

But seeing the guy currently moseying down the sidewalk makes Dean reconsider pretty much every ill thought towards longboards.

He’s young, probably barely twenty-one, with messy dark hair and tanned skin. He’s wearing a graphic band tank top and board shorts, big sunglasses on his face, and Dean’s mouth goes a little dry as the wind makes his clothes outline the frame of his body. Wowza. 

Turning forward again so he doesn’t break his neck trying to look at the guy, Dean caps his sunscreen and puts it back in his bag. He’s seen plenty of hot people milling about the boardwalk, but this guy’s got Dean’s heart flipping and his heart eyes activated. Awesome. He shifts a little on his towel and leans back on a hand as casually as possible; the sound of the wheels crackling along the pavement stops and he glances over to see the guy kicking his longboard up into his hands and stepping down onto the sandy beach. He walks over towards the currently closed ice cream shack, props his board against the wall of it, and then pulls a set of keys out of his pocket.

Oh shit. How did Dean not know there was a hot ice cream vendor on the beach?

 _Because you don’t eat ice cream for breakfast, idiot,_ he reminds himself morosely. He doesn’t think anyone could possibly have ice cream before noon, either, but hey. The general public is pretty surprising with what they’re willing to do for a treat at any time of day. He should know: his clients confess the most gluttonous (and weirdest) of sins to him. 

Leaning back on his elbows, legs outstretched in front of him, Dean glances down at himself, idly thinking about approaching the ice cream stand after it opens. It’s been a while since he’s actively gone and hit on someone (whereas being a personal trainer makes him the target for quite a bit of flirtations, mostly from clients, and it’s all one-sided because Dean is nothing short of professional), and he thinks that making eyes at a guy as hot as that is well-deserved. Backtracking his thoughts, Dean wrinkles his nose. 

No, the guy isn’t a piece of meat. Come on.

He glances over towards the shack just in time to see the guy with his arms stretched over his head, lifting the slab of wood that had been keeping the counter closed off. Muscles flex in his shoulders and biceps as he props it with two poles, creating an awning, and Dean has to swallow thickly.

Don’t objectify him!

… But he looks so fucking _good_. Drumming his fingers against the soft fabric of his beach towel, Dean drags his gaze away from the guy and peers out at the ocean. It’s fine. This is fine. He’s gone this long without knowing the dude even existed, what’s the difference if he continues on ignoring him? No difference, that’s what. 

Honestly. 

Truly. 

Surely. 

… Possibly.

Dean sneaks another glance. 

The guy is bent over, glorious, beautiful, firm ass on display as he lines the aluminum trash can with a new bag.

Fuck.

Resisting a groan, Dean sits up and folds his legs criss cross, resting his palms on his knees. He doesn’t wanna leave the beach yet, but this guy is way too distracting, and Dean isn’t feeling any sort of relaxed with him in his peripheral. In hindsight, he knows very much what it’s like to be fresh outta college (maybe not even graduated) and having older men ogle him. Not very pleasant. So Dean should definitely take a hike.

Then again… Dean looks down at himself.

He looks nothing like the skeezy dudes that used to hit on him back in the day.

Rubbing his hand over the back of his neck he lets out a blustery sigh, flexing his toes. Maybe a swim will help. Standing up and shaking out his limbs, he double checks the beach to determine if he can leave his bag behind. There’s a family of three about a hundred yards off, harmless enough, and the people passing on the boardwalk are in their own little worlds. Figuring it’s alright, Dean walks down the beach towards the water and steps into the frigid Pacific, goosebumps breaking out over his skin. He hadn’t spent enough time warming in the sun for this to be pleasant, but he deserves a dunk for his impure thoughts.

His swim is quick; he rides along the length of the waves for a little bit with a breastroke, trying to get his heart rate up. Might as well exercise like he normally does. After fifteen minutes he feels a burn in his muscles, the ocean particularly handsy with him today, and he swims back up to shore thinking very hard about how much he would like a blueberry scone. Dripping wet he shakes out his hair, feeling the sun drying him immediately, and he makes his way back to his towel, leaning forward until he falls on his hands in a plank. He digs his toes into the sand and drips dry for a few beats before he lowers himself onto the material, groaning. The sun did his towel nothing but good while he was away.

Folding his arms so he can rest the side of his face on them, he allows his gaze to drift towards the ice cream stand. There’s some music coming from it, muted by the waves so he can’t recognize what genre, and when his gaze focuses a little he sees that they also advertise refreshments other than ice cream. He _did_ forget to pack a water today…

Deciding to laze for a bit longer, Dean is basically dry by the time he props himself up and gets on his knees. He puts his sunglasses on his face, dons his tank top, and then stands to shake out his towel. He gets everything neatly arranged in his bag alongside his sneakers and socks and shoulders it, heading towards the little stand with maybe a bit of trepidation.

He’s not nervous, ok.

He just doesn’t wanna come across like every other beach-douche that goes around flirting with whoever catches their eye. 

Ok?

Ok.

Just to be clear.

When he walks up to the shack the guy’s back is turned, the speakers playing what Dean recognizes as girl punk rock. Glitter Mini… whatever. Sam’s girlfriend is into this kind of music. Interesting choice for the guy though. Dean thought a place like this might play some of that top 40 teeny bopper crap. The guy is occupied writing something down on a clipboard and Dean hovers for a moment, pretty sure that the guy didn’t hear him approaching - so he reaches down and raps his knuckles gently on the wooden counter, offering a sunny smile when the guy turns around.

Shit.

Fuck the Pacific behind him, kid’s got oceans for eyes.

“Hello,” his voice is cavernous. It shoots through Dean’s body. He offers a small, but friendly smile. “How can I help you?”

Dean hopes it’s not super obvious that he’s gawking. “Bottle of water please.”

The guy nods and turns around again to reach into an ice chest, and from this close, Dean can’t help but let his eyes wander. God, that ass. Those legs. Shit. His narrow waist.

Fuck.

When the guy turns around, water bottle in hand, Dean snaps his gaze away and pulls his bag off of his shoulders to loosen the ties and reach inside for his wallet. 

“One dollar.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “A buck? Seriously?”

The guy’s head tilts, and he… squints. Fuck. “I will never over charge for water on a beach. Hydration is important.”

Finding himself nodding a bit dumbly, Dean plucks out a bill and sets it on the counts. “That’s actually really cool of you.”

The guy shrugs, the smallest of smirks quirking the corner of his mouth. “My ice cream is still the most expensive on the boardwalk, though.”

“Ouch,” Dean puts his hand over his chest like he’s wounded, and then chuckles. “What makes it so good?”

“Hand-dipped,” the guy replies easily.

Dean sends the guy a somewhat deadpan look. “C’mon. That’s your gimmick? Dairy Queen hand dips their cones.”

“I’m not Dairy Queen,” the guy’s feathers ruffle a little.

Dean can’t help but let his gaze drop towards where the guy’s hands are resting on the counter. “Clearly.”

The guy shrugs. “I do nitro infusion as well and mix my own flavors with fresh ingredients. We use local honey and offer dairy-free options.”

Taking a step back, Dean takes in the shack. It’s not run down by any means, but it’s not the freshest joint on the block, and now he knows the incredulity is written plain on his features. “Ya got all that here?”

The man’s smile is a bit smug. “I have wonderful reviews on Yelp.”

Snorting, Dean picks up the water bottle and cracks it open for a drink. “Damn.” 

Blue eyes regard Dean curiously, “You don’t seem the type to enjoy sweet treats.”

Dean blinks down at him. “Huh?” 

The guy gestures idly with a hand, “You’re… very fit.”

“So are you,” Dean says, almost defensively. Hmph. 

The guy laughs, the sound melodious. “Touché.”

Who the fuck says that in real life. Dean caps his water bottle and then puts it in his bag alongside his wallet, allowing his gaze to drift over the handwritten chalk menu hanging in the back of the shop. The name of the shop, _HEAVENLY HONEY_ , is written prettily, and Dean allows his gaze to return to the guy, taking him in. 

“So this your shop?”

“My brother’s,” the guy says. “Although he allows me to run it while he focuses on his restaurant. I… prefer the beach.” 

“Kinda hours you got?” Dean asks curiously. Honestly he’s pretty stoked that the guy seems so easy to talk to. Sassy. Hot. Fuck. Most importantly: he doesn’t seem weirded out that an older guy is talking to him. 

“About eight to eight. Just busy hours,” he shrugs and leans his hip against the counter, folding his arms loosely over his chest as he sends Dean a devastatingly handsome, casual grin. “I’m usually only here for a few of them before I go off to my afternoon classes. Kevin takes over for me then.”

Nodding, Dean feels words stop up in his throat a bit. There’s quite a few things he’d like to ask, but he’s unsure about what he _should_ ask, and the guy’s biceps aren’t as defined as Dean’s, per se, but they’re toned and flexing under golden skin with the guy’s pose and uh. What? 

“Huh?” Dean blinks, realizing the guy had said something and he, like a fucking idiot, hadn’t been paying attention.

The knowing smirk he gets makes his blood vaporize. 

“I said: My name is Castiel.”

“Dean,” he replies when his tongue is no longer glued to the roof of his mouth.

“Well, Dean,” Castiel says, the name falling off of his lips like sin. “Maybe one day you can sample the goods.”

Dean’s brows rocket up to his hairline, his cheeks flaming, and then Castiel is _laughing_ , pulling away from the counter so he can grab a dish towel. “You-”

“-mean the ice cream, of course,” Castiel says as he runs the cloth over the counter, likely just for something to do with his hands rather than actually feeling like it needs cleaned. His blue eyes pierce Dean’s through the sunglasses the older man is wearing, his right brow cocked, playful challenge in his expression. 

“Right.” Dean has to bodily step away from the shack to put some physical distance between himself and Castiel. “Well, uh. I gotta…”

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel says, almost primly as he twists the towel idly in his hands. He doesn’t look miffed that Dean’s trying to hightail it outta there. No, he still looks fucking smug. “Have a good day.”

“Later Cas,” Dean replies much easier than he thought possible, and then fucking _shoots a finger gun_ at him before turning on heel and walking away from the shack, immediately rolling his eyes at himself when he’s sure Castiel can’t see his face.

Fucking finger guns!!!!!!

\--

Dean, stubbornly, doesn’t go to the beach for a few days. Holy shit, he’s so damn embarrassed. Castiel hadn’t seemed particularly creeped out by him - hell, he seemed like he’d been enjoying talking to Dean - but Dean isn’t about to be all up in the guy’s business (literally) so soon after meeting him.

But by the time Thursday rolls around Dean really wants to go for a swim, the heat wave that crept up on the coast nearly unbearable, and he gathers up his wounded pride and his athletic bag so he can make the twenty minute jog down towards the boardwalk. It’s a little after nine, later than he would like, but he’d spent so much time waffling around in the kitchen eating his cereal as slow as humanly possible trying to put off the inevitable. In any case, the beach is pretty sparse as usual, which is what Dean cares most about, and he purposely gives the ice cream shack a large berth as he spreads out his towel about fifty yards away, closer to the water than the boardwalk. He stands with his hands on his hips for a few moments, watching the waves and doing his best to clear his mind - but the sun is _hot_ today, so he strips off his tshirt and toes out of his shoes, making sure there’s nothing in the pockets of his trunks before he heads to the water. He does his best to exercise like usual but ends up floating on his back and allowing the waves to carry him back to shore, where he stands up and slicks his hair back on his head to get the water to stop dripping down into his eyes.

Something feels… weird, though, as he starts walking out of the water, tugging idly at the material of his shorts to get them to stop clinging to his ass and thighs uncomfortably. A quick sweep of the beach has his eyes trailing towards _HEAVENLY HONEY_ , where Castiel is sitting in a lowered lounge chair in front of the shack, knees bent and spread, fingers laced behind his neck with his face turned up towards the sun. 

Dean isn’t sure how he knows, but he just… _knows_ that Castiel’s eyes are watching him from behind those Raybans. Feeling himself flush Dean pretends he doesn’t notice Castiel as he walks back towards his towel, picking it up off of the sand and shaking it out before starting to run it perfunctorily over his body. He’d love to air dry, but he’s feeling a little fidgety, especially with Castiel lounging like that. Dean wants nothing more than to get up close, drink in tan skin and dark hair and _blue blue blue_ but he resists, because he’s a fucking grown ass man and has self control, ok? 

_Ok?_

… He has zero self control.

He packs up his athletic bag and drapes his damp towel over his shoulder instead of putting it in his bag, since sometimes it make his shoes smell funky, and then trudges across the sand towards the shack. As he approaches Castiel makes no move to show that he sees him coming, and when Dean is close enough he reaches out with his toe, a bit boldly, bumping it against the younger man’s shin playfully.

“You’ll get sunburned if you nap out here,” Dean finds himself saying. 

Castiel reaches up a hand and uses his index finger to slide his Raybans down the bridge of his straight nose coolly so he can regard Dean with those hypnotic eyes. “I’m not napping. I’ve been enjoying the view.” 

Realizing he’s still shirtless, Dean reflexively glances down at himself and shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Oh.”

Castiel slides his sunglasses back up his nose to conceal his eyes, but the smirk on his lips is plain as day. “Hello, Dean.”

“Uh, hi,” Dean says needlessly. “Slow morning?”

“Very,” Castiel says, still lounging in his seat. He stretches his legs out, and Dean tries very, very hard to not let his eyes trail over the way his thick thigh muscles flex, but… well. Dean’s learning very quickly that he’s not as smooth as he thought he once was. “How’s the water?” 

“Good,” Dean replies, licking his lips and clearing his throat a little as he turns to look out towards the waves. “It’s been too hot.” 

“Agreed,” Castiel replies. 

“You swim?” Dean turns his gaze back towards Castiel.

“I don’t know how,” Castiel says easily with a shrug.

Dean blinks a few times. “... You don’t know how to swim?” 

Even though he can’t see his eyes, Dean knows that Castiel is giving him a pretty deadpan look. “I don’t know how to swim.” He repeats, like Dean is fucking five.

“Damn,” Dean rubs the back of his neck idly. “Wanna learn?” He finds himself offering without his own permission. 

“Not particularly,” Castiel says.

Damn, this kid is like ice. 

“Is it smart to work so close to the water when you can’t swim?” 

“Is the shack located in the water?” Castiel asks dryly. 

Dean finds himself rolling his eyes a little. “You’re a little shit.” 

“My apologies, old man,” Castiel says, not sounding a smidgen apologetic.

Dean squints down at him. “Old man…”

Castiel’s lips are quirked in a smile. “Would you really teach me?” 

“Not now,” Dean gruffs. 

Castiel _laughs_. “Of course.” 

A silence falls comfortably over them and Dean, after only a moment’s hesitation, takes his towel off of his shoulder and spreads it on the sand next to Castiel’s chair, smoothing it out before taking a seat on it. He draws his knees up and loosely loops his arms around them, fingers linked in the air, and he and Castiel both watch the ocean kiss the shore quietly. It’s nice, Dean thinks, to sit like this with company. Often he usually starts blabbing, desperate to fill the silence, but something about Castiel’s easy reticence has Dean dialing it back. 

An old dog learning new tricks. 

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Castiel breaks the silence, voice crashing over Dean like a tidal wave.

“No,” Dean says, tilting his head to look over at Castiel. The height of the other man’s chair has them at almost eye-level. His face is still turned towards the ocean. “You?” 

“I don’t date women,” Castiel says, his eyes closed behind his sunglasses. 

Dean doesn’t really know how to reply to that, so he twists his fingers around his wrists idly before he drops his knees to either side, sitting criss cross on his towel. Another silence settles over them but it’s not uncomfortable, even if Dean isn’t quite sure what to make of Castiel’s odd conversation skills. So he continues to look out at the ocean, until he realizes that his shadow has moved quite a bit, and he pulls his phone out of his bag to check the time. He’s been at the beach for an hour and a half without even realizing it, and he lets out a breath as he shifts to stand up. 

“I gotta get goin’,” he says, shaking out his towel and working on military rolling it up so he can stuff it into his athletic bag. 

Castiel pulls his sunglasses down again so he can watch as Dean pulls his tshirt on. “Will you be back tomorrow?” 

Dean isn’t quite sure what this… unspoken thing is between them. Flirting? Probably. Dean’s normal charms are ineffective on Castiel, it seems. Not that it matters - because Dean’s normal charms are nowhere to be found. Castiel is throwing him off his game and Dean is left floundering, trying to catch up, and even though he had approached this situation (if it can be called that) with the mindset that he’s an older dude flirting with a younger dude, he’s starting to feel like he’s the one being shown the ropes. 

It’s kinda nice. 

“Yeah,” Dean finds himself replying without a second thought. 

Castiel puts his sunglasses back in place, using that hand to throw Dean a finger gun, wrist flicking in a shoot. “See you then, Dean.” 

A fucking _finger gun_. 

Dean smiles for the entire jog back home. 

\--

Barring the few days after initially meeting Castiel, Dean makes a habit of going down to the beach every day, save for weekends - which Castiel has off. Instead of putting his towel down a respectable distance away Dean decides fuck it and starts laying his towel right in front of the shack, next to Castiel’s lounge chair. Sometimes they talk - Dean learns that Castiel is attending school for some sort of horticulture degree, which explains why Castiel is so fond of their fresh ingredients (because he grows them all himself) - and sometimes they don’t, the soundtrack of the ocean enough to fill the silence between them. 

Three weeks go by like this. 

Attraction underlines everything, though - static in the air. They don’t touch, hell - sometimes they barely even look at each other. Dean feels like crawling out of his own skin, he’s being driven wild. It’s a strange sort of foreplay, not touching or looking, merely allowing conversation to carry on between them - the topics ranging from mundane (weather) to deep (Dean confesses that his father used to abuse him and Sam, and Castiel confesses his parents disowned him when he came out), and before Dean knows it, he realizes that while he’s still insanely drawn to Castiel physically, he’s starting to be drawn to Castiel… emotionally. 

At the end of the fourth week as Dean rolls up his towel and arranges his bag, Castiel also stands up. It’s a bit out of routine; usually Dean stands, packs up, and walks away while Castiel continues to lounge, regarding Dean with those cool blue eyes. Castiel has a few different pairs of board shorts he alternates between, but he always is wearing a tshirt or tank top, and Dean wonders how the kid doesn’t have any weird tan lines. But right now Castiel is within arm’s reach of Dean, messy dark hair ruffling with the sea breeze, and he pulls his sunglasses off of his face as he regards Dean, who looks back with an arched brow. 

“Would it be too forward of me to ask you to dinner?” 

Dean’s other brow rises, and he finds his lips curling with mild amusement. “You askin’ me on a date, kid?” 

Castiel rolls his eyes, “Don’t take the novelty away from me for asking you politely.”

Snorting, Dean adjusts the bag on his shoulder. “What if I say no?” 

“You won’t,” Castiel says confidently. 

“You’re right,” Dean laughs a little. “Alright. Since you asked so formally I’m expecting something fancy.” 

Castiel’s lip quirks in turn. “Are you insinuating I should woo you?” 

“Shouldn’t you?” Dean fires back. 

“I am just a broke college kid.” Castiel allows his gaze to rake over Dean’s form. Heat spreads through Dean’s frame, unrelated to the sun shining down on them. “First impressions would have me assuming that you would prefer to do the wooing, but after getting to know you…” Castiel’s eyes rise back up to Dean’s face, pinning emerald with sapphire. “I’m pleased to learn that you wouldn’t mind being lead.” 

“Yeah, well,” Dean can’t hide the blush on his features as he takes a step back, suddenly feeling… exposed. “First time for everything.” 

The smile that spreads on Castiel’s lips is _predatory_. “Indeed. Meet me here tomorrow night at seven.” 

Dean nods a bit stiffly, suddenly wishing that he didn’t prefer wearing the teeny tiny trunks that hide virtually nothing. His cock is doing its best to swell in reply to Castiel’s tone of voice, the implication of his words, and Dean waves an awkward hand as he ducks away. 

Shit.

 _Shit_.

\--

“Shit.” Sam echoes.

Dean is pacing in the kitchen, smoothing his clammy palms over the thighs of his dark jeans. “Should I wear slacks?”

“Probably not,” Sam replies. “Broke college kid, remember?”

Dean shoots him a glare. 

Sam raises his hands in innocence, “Look- I’m sure things will be fine. He seems really cool.”

“He is,” Dean grouses. 

“So…” Sam’s brows do that weird thing where he’s trying to look confused and concerned at the same time.

Dean holds up a hand to start counting on his fingers, “I don’t know his last name. I don’t know how old he is. I don’t have his phone number. I don’t know if he lives by himself or with other people.”

“Those are pretty superficial things,” Sam shrugs.

“His age is not a ‘superficial thing’, Sam,” Dean says, resisting the urge to run a hand through his coiffed hair. “What if he’s like, eighteen?” 

Sam shrugs. “Legal.”

“Not helping.”

“You know he’s not eighteen, Dean, he’s talked to you about how he’s been in college for a few years.” Sam reasons. “And obviously he doesn’t care about age because _he_ asked _you_ out.”

Dean clearly doesn’t look convinced. Sighing, Sam adjusts the readers on his nose, giving Dean his full attention. 

“Tell me what you _do_ know about him.”

Dean leans his hip against the counter as he folds his arms over his chest, frowning in thought as he recalls their many conversations. “He loves plants and shit. Fruits, vegetables… he’s got a greenhouse or something that he grows it all in. He’s obsessed with bees. Always has at least three honey sticks when I see him. He’s incredibly intelligent… but he doesn’t make me feel like an idiot when I don’t have much to talk about. He listens real well when I do. He doesn’t know how to swim and he smokes weed instead of drinking coffee because caffeine makes him jittery.” When Dean looks up from where he’d been staring at a cabinet while he talked, he’s surprised to see Sam staring at him with open wonder and disbelief. Defensively, Dean grouses, “What?” 

Sam snaps his mouth shut, teeth clicking. “I’ve never heard you talk about anyone like that.”

“Like what,” Dean squints. 

“Like you-” Sam’s lips quirk like he’s trying really, really hard not to smile. “Like you _like_ him.”

“Of course I like him,” Dean bristles, “why else would I be going on a friggin’ date with him?” 

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” Sam says, picking up his iPad and standing up from where he’d been seated at the table. “Use protection.”

Dean throws his hands up in their air in exasperation even though his brother can’t see him. He swipes his wallet off of the counter and tucks it into his front pocket along with his cell phone, glancing down at the red henley he’d decided to wear. He hopes he’s not too casual. He hopes he’s not too dressy. 

Maybe he should just wear his damn tiny swim trunks. 

He decides to walk down to the beach, figuring they can catch an Uber from there for whatever it is Castiel has planned. The neighborhood is quiet - it’s Wednesday, after all - and by the time Dean makes it down to the beach he’s feeling warm in his pants and shirt, plucking at the hem of his henley to fan himself idly with it. The ice cream shack looks unassuming as ever and Dean walks up to it before he loses his nerve, walking up to the counter and resting his palms on it. 

Castiel turns around from where he’d been fiddling with something, and Dean swallows thickly. He’s wearing a cream and green jersey tee, the sleeves bunched up past his elbows, and tight, _tight_ acid wash jeans. His hair is messy as usual, eyes bright, but his stubble has been shaved clean and he’s got a shiny diamond earring in each lobe. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets. 

“Heya Cas,” Dean replies, pretty damn proud that he didn’t get all tongue-tied. 

“Come inside,” Castiel invites.

Walking to the employee door Dean allows himself in, feeling a little weird. It’s always strange going into employee-only areas when you’re not an employee, even at forty years old. “What’s on the agenda tonight?” he asks when the door closes behind him. 

Castiel reaches above the customer counter to slide down the wooden plank with CLOSED emblazoned across the front, the clank of it hitting the counter making Dean jump a little even though he’d watched it descend. “You.” 

Dean raises both of his brows, heat flashing through his body. “What?” 

Castiel turns a wry smile towards Dean, “Tonight you will be sampling the goods.”

Dean looks around the area cautiously. It’s all clean and perfect and sanitary and Dean suddenly feels like he’s on the menu, exclusively. It’s a raw, exciting feeling. “You mean the ice cream, right?” 

A measuring look passes Castiel’s features before he turns around, walking towards a large bin. “Sure.”

With Castiel’s back turned Dean takes the opportunity to rub a hand over his chest, trying to physically quell his thumping heart. He takes a few breaths and then follows Castiel over towards the bin, peering over his shoulder curiously. Ten tubs of ice cream are arranged neatly in two rows of five, their flavors written on little placards sticking out of the treat itself, and Dean looks over the options with thinly veiled interest.

“Would you like sweet, or savory?” Castiel asks.

Realizing he’s in the kid’s space Dean takes a step away as casually as possible, shrugging. “Which one is your favorite?”

The look in Castiel’s eyes is pretty much unreadable, and Dean blinks plaintively back at him for a few seconds before Castiel points to a purple ice cream. “Huckleberry. Huckleberries are native to the Pacific Northwest, but Gabriel has a friend ship them down to us weekly. This particular ice cream is delicious drizzled with honey.”

“Never had a huckleberry,” Dean says. “Is it like a blueberry?”

Castiel reaches for a small plastic bowl with one hand, his other hand grabbing the ice cream scoop out of the bucket of water. “Better.”

“I dunno, blueberries are pretty damn good,” Dean says, folding his arms over his chest as he leans against the bin. His eyes are glued to the way Castiel’s forearms flex and shift as he uses his strength to gather the perfect scoops from the cream and deposit them into the bowl. True to his suggestion he grabs a bottle of honey and drizzles a few lines over the purple concoction, before grabbing a small spoon and handing them both to Dean. Taking each in hand, Dean doesn’t even let the drum roll before he’s taking a bite, the flavors exploding over his tongue. Huckleberry _is_ different than blueberry. It’s more sweet than tart, rich in its flavor, and the honey adds just the right amount of smoothness. “Holy shit, that’s good,” he groans, licking the remnants from his spoon.

Castiel’s eyes darken. He picks up a spoon for himself, leaning into Dean’s space, bringing a bite of ice cream up to his lips for a taste as well, humming in appreciation. “I’m glad you enjoy it.”

“What other delicious treats are you hiding back here?” Dean asks, allowing his gaze to travel around. 

“What are you interested in sampling?” Castiel asks, and oh, fuck, his voice is dangerously low.

Dean’s gaze snaps back towards Castiel’s, and he feels heat blossoming over his cheeks despite the cold dessert he’s cramming into his mouth. “Uh- you said something about things being hand-dipped.” He’s surprised his brain can string together two sentences with the way Castiel is licking his spoon clean and regarding Dean with quiet contemplation.

“Our soft serve,” Castiel says with a nod. He puts his spoon in the bowl Dean’s holding and then turns to point towards a machine against the far wall. “We only have vanilla soft serve, but we dip it into whatever you like. Crushed candy, chocolate coat, fruit.”

Thankful that Castiel hadn’t served him a giant helping of ice cream, Dean finishes off the huckleberry treat and licks his lips clean of the sticky honey. He tosses the garbage and then walks towards the soft serve, his attention getting distracted by Castiel, who opens a different bin. Dean once again moves into his space so he can look over the options- and woah, there’s quite a bit. Crushed graham crackers, chocolate chips, crushed Reese’s, melted chocolate as well as what looks like butterscotch, assorted dried fruits chopped finely into small pieces, and of course: rainbow sprinkles.

Castiel shifts and grabs a waffle cone, dipping it into the chocolate sauce about an inch deep. He pulls out it and lets it drip, the frigid air blasting from the fan in the back of the bin drying it quickly, and then gives it a quick roll in the sprinkles. He’s effortless as he moves to the soft serve machine, pouring a small swirl into the cone, and then tilts his head towards Dean.

“What would you like?”

Dean rubs a hand over his stomach subconsciously, thinking about how he probably shouldn’t be eating so many sweets, but his eyes are lingering on the Reese’s. Castiel sees this, of course, because he’s observant as fuck, and he quickly dips the ice cream into the bin before holding the completed product towards Dean. When Dean takes it their fingers brush, and he lifts his gaze to Castiel’s, blue eyes glimmering in expectant amusement.

“You realize you’re destroying my calorie count for today, right?” Dean asks, not an ounce of anger in his tone.

Castiel’s eyes drop to the way the henley is stretched over Dean’s pecs and shoulders and he _licks his fucking lips_ , before shrugging. “I’m sure one night of… indulgence will be fine.”

Dean swallows. Feeling a little awkward with Castiel staring, he turns away slightly as he brings the ice cream up to his mouth for a bite. The collision of textures on his tongue, crumbly candy with smooth ice cream, makes him hum in appreciation. “Have you sampled everything?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says. He moves away from Dean, then, hopping up onto the service counter with the CLOSED board against his back. “Although I do my best to only sample new products and not give into the temptation to graze when I work.”

“Smart,” Dean says. He leans against the island opposite of Castiel, crossing his ankles, an arm folding across his torso so he can rest his elbow on his wrist, keeping the ice cream up by his mouth. It’s cool in here thanks to the exhaust system, so he’s not too worried about his treat melting before he can enjoy it. 

“Would you like to do something after you’re done?” Castiel asks. He’s slumped back against the board but he’s all elegant slopes of tanned skin, his gaze curious.

Dean shrugs a little. “Honestly, I’m cool with just hanging out here. You don’t really need to wine and dine me.”

A wry smile passes over Castiel’s lips, “You don’t think it’s a little… juvenile?”

Ah. The age issue finally comes up. Dean tries to stay casual, “Not really. You’re uh.” He chews on a piece of Reese’s. “You don’t care that I’m…” he trails off.

It seems to take Castiel a moment to understand what Dean means, and then he lets out a little laugh, shaking his head. “If you think our age difference is an issue, you are sorely mistaken.”

Dean can’t help the smile that tugs his lips. “You into silver foxes?”

Castiel’s gaze lifts towards Dean’s sandy blond hair, which has only a few streaks of silver in it. “I imagine I will be. But Dean,” his gaze drops back to Dean’s. “You’re not _old_ , if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not _worried_ about it,” Dean says, almost defensively. But he’s pouting, so hopefully Castiel won’t take it seriously. “You’re just- I dunno why you’d be into me.”

“Have you seen yourself?” Castiel asks, deadpan.

Dean glances down reflexively, some ice cream dribbling over his fingers. He licks it up hastily, while Castiel continues talking.

“Eighteen years isn’t the craziest age difference in the world.”

So Castiel is twenty-two. Awesome. Dean gets down to the cone and starts nibbling at the edge.

“The dating pool of my age group is dismal, by the way.” Castiel says, not without a bit of suffering. “I appreciate hook-up culture for what it is, but it’s hard to find someone who can hold a meaningful conversation.”

Early mornings, sandy beaches, sunshine, ocean waves, and easy (sometimes meaningful) conversation. Huh. “Understandable. But isn’t that what college is for? Finding like-minded people and all that?”

Castiel sits up straighter, elbows locked, fingers curled over the edge of the counter as he swings his feet idly. His head tilts, and shit, that’s adorable. “I’m not interested in sleeping with my classmates.”

Dean’s grip crushes the cone and he flushes in surprise and embarrassment, quickly cramming the rest of it into his mouth and chewing hurriedly. After he chews and swallows, all under Castiel’s amused gaze, Dean clears his throat and grabs a nearby towel to wipe his hands clean. “Well- uh.”

Castiel chews his lower lip in thought, and then suddenly spreads his thighs open, adjusting his position on the counter in invitation. Dean’s eyes track the movement of Castiel’s biceps shifting and flexing, and when he speaks Dean’s attention snaps up quick as a whip. “Do _you_ have a problem with our age difference?”

Dean’s mouth goes dry. Castiel is making it really hard to focus on the conversation at hand, considering his own hands are pulling up the hem of his jersey tee, exposing tan skin and the shallow dips of his abdomen. “No-” Dean finally manages to say. “Not at all.”

The smirk on Castiel’s lips is sinful as he keeps rucking his shirt up. “Good.” A few more inches reveals his navel and oh, oh shit. It’s pierced, a plain silver hoop in the skin. His shirt keeps traveling upwards and Dean continues to drink in the expanse of skin being exposed bit by bit and then finally, Castiel starts pulling the shirt off his head. Fuck, his nipples are pierced too, silver barbells adorning the flesh, and Dean’s mouth goes dryer than the Sahara desert as he drinks in the sight of Castiel shirtless, legs spread, a soft flush on his cheekbones.

“Cas,” Dean says, rather needlessly. He’s pinned to the spot, his cock swelling in his pants, and even though Castiel looks inviting as hell, Dean isn’t going to be a brute about the arousal threatening to overtake him.

“Dean,” Castiel says, dropping his shirt to the floor. “Come kiss me.”

It’s an out of body experience when Dean moves forward into the space between Castiel’s legs, his hands reaching up to cup that sharp jawline and angle Castiel’s head down so their mouths can slot together. Castiel’s arms wind around Dean’s shoulder, bringing him in close so his legs can wrap around his waist, and Dean’s hands immediately start roaming greedily, feeling Castiel up like he’ll die if he doesn’t. His palms skate over Castiel’s ribs and he drags them upwards, thumbs brushing over the piercings in his nipples; he’s rewarded with a low moan against his lips, Castiel’s tongue diving into his mouth, spine arching and ankles crossing behind Dean’s ass. 

Thank god an exhaust fan is blowing, because Dean is getting _hot_ wearing all of these clothes. Castiel must sense this because he breaks the kiss so he can pull Dean’s shirt up and over his head, tongue and teeth attacking Dean’s neck as he uses his ankles to crowd Dean close, their pelvises grinding together.

“I hate when you wear clothes,” Castiel growls against Dean’s collarbone, his hands now doing their own greedy mapping of Dean’s body. He _squeezes_ Dean’s pecs, for Christ’s sake, and then reaches up to squeeze his biceps and triceps, too. “You’re so fucking ripped.”

Dean manages a breathless laugh at Castiel’s muttered words, his own teeth sinking into the meat of Castiel’s shoulder as he reaches down to start undoing Castiel’s pants. Their hands are frenzied; weeks of talking and not touching boils down to their raw need to get their mitts all over one another, and Dean hasn’t felt this exhilarated in… fuck, a really fucking long time. Castiel shifts his hips and wiggles so Dean can pull his jeans and underwear off in one motion and then Dean is dropping to crouch, hands on Castiel’s hips to drag him until his ass is nearly hanging off the edge of the counter, Castiel’s shoulders crowded against the board as he slouches. Castiel rests the soles of his feet on Dean’s shoulders for leverage and then tangles his fingers in his hair just as Dean licks a fat, wet stripe up the length of his cock, the wrecked moan he lets out in reply making Dean’s own arousal throb hot and heavy.

When Dean gets an eyeful of Castiel, he groans pitifully. 

The prince albert piercing staring back at him is threatening to make him come in his damn pants.

A little out of practice but no less enthusiastic, Dean swallows Castiel down. Castiel is vocally responsive, a litany of curses falling from his lips, moans groans and pants as his fingers flex in Dean’s hair, his body _squirming_. Dean bobs his head a few times, sloppy about it, slurpy about it, and when he pulls off he spits on the head of Castiel’s cock, leaning down to spread it around with his tongue, the tip of his slick muscle flicking at the barbell pierced through the flesh, ears specifically tuned the frequency on which Castiel is begging. Sucking, licking, nibbling, Dean takes Castiel’s cock down to the root, nose pressed into finely trimmed hair, and Castiel can’t thrust up in this position but he’s still squirming, his cock sliding along Dean’s tight throat deliciously.

He pulls Dean off with a little gasp and pinches the base of his cock, his entire body flushed with arousal. Dean stands up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and Castiel reaches forward with his free hand to yank him in for a kiss, Dean following easily and allowing their tongues to slide together filthily. Castiel’s hands then move down towards Dean’s jeans, nearly ripping the fastenings in his haste to get them undone, pushing them down Dean’s hips.

“Fuck,” Castiel moans against Dean’s mouth, breaking the kiss so he can look down at what he’s doing. “Fuck, why did you wear _clothes_?”

Dean manages a little laugh, “I thought about wearing my shorts.”

“Should have,” Castiel says lowly. He sits up so he can reach better and the new angle allows Dean to mouth over his chest, teeth tugging on a nipple piercing before his tongue soothes over it hotly. Once Dean’s pants are down as far as he can get them Dean pulls away so he can finish the job, kicking off his shoes and stepping out of his pants and underwear. Castiel stares at his cock hungrily, and then lifts his gaze with what looks like monumental effort. “Fuck me.”

“How many food safety laws are we about to break?” Dean asks with amusement as Castiel hops off of the counter.

“All of them,” Castiel says as he picks up his jeans, pulling a condom out of a pocket and pressing the cold foil against Dean’s chest. He turns around so he can lean against the counter, legs spread, ass tilted, and then sends Dean a look over his shoulder. “Use your tongue.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean immediately drops to his knees, Castiel’s bossy tone making it hard for him to stay upright. His hands spread Castiel’s ass cheeks and then he leans in to seal his lips over his rim, giving a few lascivious sucks before his tongue starts swiping along the pucker. Castiel’s spine dips, his cock hangs heavy, and Dean buries himself in his ass like a man starved, tongue working past the tight muscle. 

Arching and bucking and reaching behind himself to once again tangle fingers in Dean’s hair, Castiel opens up beautifully for Dean’s tongue and the accompanying two fingers working their way inside. He bounces a little on the balls of his feet and Dean groans as his ass jiggles against his cheeks and then he pulls off to suck down a lungful of air, spitting on Castiel’s hole and smearing the saliva around messily.

“Enough,” Castiel huffs out. “I’m ready.”

Standing up, Dean rips the packet open and rolls the condom onto his dick, giving it a few strokes to try and shunt his impending orgasm. Working Castiel open like that, having Castiel boss him around like that- it’s all strumming the right chords and Dean spits on his own dick to slick it, the sensation of his cock sliding into Castiel’s impossibly tight ass the sonnet of a lifetime. He grabs Castiel’s hips and pulls him back until his hips are against his flesh and he lowers himself over Castiel’s back, mouthing at his shoulder blades, biting at the curve of them, before pulling out and slamming back in without warning. 

Castiel lets out a punched out noise as he braces himself with one hand against the CLOSED board, the other on the edge of the counter, keeping him solid and grounded as Dean starts fucking into the tightness of his body. It’s overwhelming, honestly, Dean’s fingers leaving bruises over Castiel’s sharp hips, skin slapping, Dean’s teeth marking up wherever they land and Castiel goads him through it, the things he’s saying (“harder, Dean”, “ _fuck_ my ass, _yes_ ”, “you’re so _big_ , Jesus”) short circuiting Dean’s brain and making his cock pulse with arousal.

Dean’s hands slide from Castiel’s hips to the fronts of his gloriously thick thighs to hold him in place so Dean can fuck into him _hard_ , Castiel’s knees buckling with the force, his torso on the counter the only thing keeping him upright. His gravelly voice pitches and he scrambles a hand down to start stroking his cock tightly and Dean feels the beginning of his orgasm staring to coil and roil in his gut, and shit it’s too soon for this to end but Castiel doesn’t seem much better off, his nails scrabbling across what wood he can reach. 

“Close,” Dean manages to moan out, feeling his hips stutter.

Castiel lifts up a little, tossing his head so he can look at Dean over his shoulder with stormy eyes, cheeks flushed, hair fucked, lips swollen. “Cum on my back.”

Dean almost doesn’t pull out quick enough to make that happen. His fingers slip over the latex and he rips off the condom with a bit of difficulty just in time for his cock to erupt, thick ropes spurting over Castiel’s tan skin, pooling in the wine glass dimples of his lower back as Dean squeezes and strokes it out of himself, his chest heaving and limbs shaking. Castiel groans and drops his head and fucks into his hand a few more times before spilling, cum dribbling over his hand and ribboning down onto the floor in thick puddles. Dean has the mind to wrap his arms around Castiel to keep him from falling, hauling the younger man up a little, back to chest, immediately burying his nose in the crook of Castiel’s neck to press kisses to the skin and inhale his scent. 

After a few moments Castiel reaches up with his clean hand, running his fingers much more gently through Dean’s hair in a caress reserved for lovers and Dean feels his heart trip up a bit at the action. Castiel’s head tilts and turns and their lips press together for a series of chaste, unhurried kisses, reveling in the afterglow. 

“Damn,” Dean finally says, his voice hoarse. He clears it, pulling away from Castiel, eyes dropping to watch his cum drip down the curve of Castiel’s ass in a sticky slow trail.

“Mm,” Castiel hums, reaching for the towel Dean had used just a bit ago, swiping it carelessly over his back before he kneels to clean up the mess on the floor. He stands and tosses the rag into a bin and Dean throws the used condom and wrapper into the garbage, picking up his boxers to start stepping into them. 

They get dressed and Dean still feels shaky and tremulous and when they’re both proper Dean feels a little awkward; mind blowing sex with a guy twenty years his junior, in a fucking ice cream shack - surely Castiel doesn’t want him hanging around.

“Dean,” Castiel says, reaching forward to grab Dean’s hand, tugging him forward.

Dean follows his lead, allowing Castiel to pull him close. Castiel’s hands round Dean shoulders and he draws him in for a slow kiss, a contented sigh falling from his lips. Dean feels… giddy. He can’t help but smile when Castiel pulls away, but his insecurities must show through because Castiel sends him a small, private smile, his hands dropping to Dean’s ass to give it a squeeze through the denim.

“You look like you’re about to spook,” Castiel observes.

“Kinda am,” Dean admits.

“I hope you know this isn’t just about sex,” Castiel says. “I like you, Dean. I would hope that spending the past few weeks together would have proven that.”

“I-” Dean feels like a middle school girl. “I like you, too, Cas. I guess I just…”

“Thought I would hit it and quit it?” Castiel asks with an arched brow, his eyes shimmering with amusement. “I will repeat my earlier words: have you _seen_ yourself?”

“Have you seen _you_?” Dean counters.

Castiel laughs, his hands moving around so they can rest on Dean’s pecs. He squeezes them, like he had earlier, and hums thoughtfully. “Besides, you haven’t told me what your favorite thing on the menu is, yet.”

Dean can’t help but smile, his hands sliding to the small of Castiel’s back, drawing him impossibly close. “Thankfully it’s not something you sell.”

Castiel’s head tilts a little as he seems to contemplate Dean’s words. “You’re right. This is more of a private selection.”

“All mine?” Dean dares to ask, pressing a kiss to the apple of Castiel’s cheek, feeling the man’s long eyelashes fluttering against his skin. 

“Any time you want,” Castiel confirms.

Dean grins. “Next time I’m dipping you in sprinkles.”

Castiel’s laughter echoes, and Dean thinks that for an old man, he’s still got some pretty good moves.

Finger guns included.

**Author's Note:**

> if you've never had a huckleberry you are seriously missing out  
> i'm obsessed with dean wearing tiny shorts ok???????? ok  
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/deansdaisydukes) to tell me about how cas having his dick pierced makes you wet *finger guns*


End file.
